“Holy Mother of God,” another cop whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.
The film stopped. Decker threw up.
16
He finished the paperwork at 5 A.M. and went home to catch up on sleep. At first there were no dreams, just blackness. But they came later—the images, smells, sounds. He tossed, ripped the sheets, soaked them in sweat. By ten he knew sleep was impossible. Resolution was the best revenge.
He showered, shaved, dressed, and davened hurriedly. Today the prayers held little meaning—words without content. And for the first time in over three months, he ate breakfast at a nonkosher restaurant. Nothing definable as traif—no ham or bacon—but he didn’t give a flying fuck if the eggs were fried in lard or the bread was baked with animal shortening. He wolfed down three over easy, four pieces of toast, double hash browns, a large orange juice, and three cups of coffee. Afterwards, stomach full, he felt much better and was surprised that his conscience didn’t bother him.
Off to the station.
At his desk, he cleaned up the last bits of paperwork, checked his watch, and headed for the viewing room.
The captain shut off the projector and flicked on the lights. Neither he nor Decker spoke. It hadn’t been any easier for Decker the second time around. If anything, it had been harder to witness Lindsey’s destruction. The scene would be fixed in his memory forever. A curse. But he had to concentrate now on what needed to be done.
The end of the film was the giveaway that Clementine had been right. Something had gone awry. The last few seconds showed a look of horror on the Countess’s face and the widening eyes of the painted man. A moment later the Countess clutched her breast and the film ended. Although Decker saw no firearm, no blast of gunfire, and no blood, he knew what had happened. She had been shot. The terror in her eyes was no act.
“Who’s the man in the film?” Morrison asked Decker.
“I don’t know. I think it’s the Countess’s accomplice. He goes by the street name Blade, but no one I’ve talked to knows a thing about him. Only this pimp Clementine.”
“Then find Clementine and squeeze him,” Morrison said. “Although I doubt if we could make a positive ID based on that film. The guy was painted like an Indian.”
“Captain?”
“What?”
“I think the guy’s dead.”
Morrison sighed heavily.
“It goes like this,” said Decker. “The Countess was whacked at the end of the movie. A last-minute thing, not part of the script. The guy looked just as surprised as she did. Both of them were probably ripped off and burnt just like the Bates girl, then dumped in the mountains.”
“So there should be another bag of bones up there.”
“I think so,” Decker said.
Morrison digested that.
“Was Pode the film maker?”
“He distributed. He kidnapped Lindsey. But I doubt if he was the brains. Probably a minnow and we’re missing the big catch. Goddam nuisance, Pode dying last night.” Decker paused. “When’s the burial for Officer Lessing?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Kids?”
“Two.”
“I’ll try to make it over,” Decker said, looking at his watch.
The room was silent.
“Who’s the man we brought in last night?” Decker asked. “He had no ID on him.”
“They’ve IDed him. Armand Arlington. As in Arlington Steel.”
“Son of a bitch!” Decker exclaimed. “Has he been booked yet?”
Morrison threw his cigarette across the room and swore. “He was charged with possession of marijuana.”
“What!”
“Sucker’s got connections with the right people,” Morrison spat out.
“We found at least half a pound of crack,” Decker said. “Not to mention all the illegal ammo.”
“I wasn’t in on the plea bargaining,” Morrison said. “But I will say this: Pacific questioned him about the films. Apparently they had nothing to connect him to the murder of Lindsey Bates.”
“That’s a load of crap!” Decker said. “Cecil Pode said the film was custom-ordered by him.”
“Did he mention Arlington by name?”
“Dammit, no.”
“So we’re nowhere, Pete. Pode’s dead, and as far as the books go, it isn’t against the law to like revolting films.”
“It’s against the law to withhold evidence crucial to a murder conviction. We need to know his contact.”
“Pacific Division was told that further investigations are now being conducted by a special pornography task force—”
“Give me a fucking break!” Decker said. “Pornography task force? A judge from the old boy’s network beating his meat to dirty pictures.”
“You’re right,” agreed the captain. “It’s a whitewash. It’s shit. But the fact still remains that Arlington’s ass is covered by legal eagles. No one can get close to him.”
“There are ways,” Decker said.
Morrison frowned. “Don’t fuck with legal channels, Sergeant. You’ll do more harm than good.”
“Marijuana,” Decker muttered. “Was it a felony possession, at least?”
“Misdemeanor,” Morrison said.
“Shit!” Decker lit a cigarette. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to bed this morning.”
“There wouldn’t have been anything you could have done,” Morrison said. “Let Arlington rest and concentrate on finding Clementine.”
“Did they ID the other sleaze buckets who were blown away?” asked Decker. “Paper didn’t mention their names.”
“Hard to ID hamburger, but we finally got a fix on them. The projectionist was a part-time grip named Sylvester Tork. His yellow sheet was longer than the Nile. The other guy was a roofer named Alvin Peppers. Alvin was released from San Quentin three months ago after serving time for assault and plea-bargained involuntary manslaughter.”
“Who hired them?”
“We don’t know.”
“If someone would lean on Arlington—”
“Don’t you think we fucking tried?” Morrison exploded. “Jesus, Pete, you’re not the only one who feels like shit about the whole thing. I saw the fucking film! I’m a parent! Get down off your high horse before you fall off and get your ass broken.”
Decker felt his anger grow. “Well, maybe I, as an individual citizen, can do some things that you, as a police captain, can’t.”
“You’re on your own if you do, Pete. I won’t back you up.”
“Consider me duly warned.”
Morrison gave him a hard stare. “Speaking of warning, you tailed Dustin Pode yesterday. I told you not to do it.”
“Who told you?”
“No one,” Morrison answered. “Everybody was so busy covering your ass I figured you must be out playing hot dog. I made an educated guess.”
The detective said nothing.
“We’ll let it pass this time,” said Morrison, “but don’t fuck around with my orders again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now what did you find out about Dustin Pode?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s been notified about his father’s death. You can question him about Cecil if you want.”
Decker cleared his throat and told Morrison about his Jack Cohen alias. As he talked, he could see the captain’s expression waver between admiration and disapproval.
“What do you hope to find out?” Morrison asked.
“If Dustin’s making sicko films on the side, maybe I could get him to strike a deal with me as an interested investor. He does legit film syndications, which would make it awfully easy to launder some dirty stuff. I’d like to keep my cover and let Hollander continue with the interviewing.”
“You leaned on Cecil Pode,” Morrison said. “What if he described you to Dustin? You’re a pretty noticeable guy. Your cover would be worthless.”
Decker groaned inwardly. How could he be so fucking dumb!
“Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “Look at it this way, Captain. If Dustin makes me for a cop, then we’re back to square one. If he doesn’t, we’ve got an advantage. I’ll get a better feel after I meet with them.”
In the end Morrison agreed it was best for Decker to stay undercover.
The mountain air was biting. Decker buttoned up his overcoat as he watched the teams dig up the hillside. Hard to believe that a month ago he’d camped in this graveyard with Jake and Sammy. The day had been bright and warm, not like today, which was overcast.
The ground became pocked with potholes—aborted digs—but Decker was sure the bones were there. It just didn’t make sense to dump the girls out here and leave the guy at another location.
Unless the killer was smart.
“Sergeant Decker!” one of the lab men shouted.
“Yeah?”
“We’ve found something—a foot bone.”
“Attached to anything?”
“No, just a foot bone.”
He walked over, bent down, and saw the burnt remains of a foot.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute…I think we struck gold,” the man said, digging deeper into a mesa of hard-packed soil.
Gradually, the entire remains were exposed. The skeleton appeared to be large—a male. Had to be the Blade. Decker was reassured. Most of the time killers weren’t that smart.
Mrs. Bates was in the front yard pruning roses. She raised her head when Decker got out of the car but made no attempt to rise from her squat. He went over to the flower bed and knelt beside her.
“Hello,” she said softly. “What do you want, Sergeant?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”
She snipped off a rose hip and shrugged.
“I like those red ones,” Decker said. “Olympiads, aren’t they?”
She nodded.
“My mother has a bed of them,” he said. “She’s a big gardener.”
Mrs. Bates said nothing.
“She says it’s her therapy,” Decker continued. “Claims the world wouldn’t need shrinks if everyone would just grow things instead.”
“I can understand that,” Mrs. Bates whispered.
He watched her trim the bushes for a minute.
She asked, “Does your mother live out here?”
“No. Florida.”
“There’s plenty of sunshine over there also.”
“That’s true,” he said. “But Gainsville also has a lot of humidity. You can’t beat L.A. for weather. I’ve tried to tell my mom that, but she and my dad are settled where they are.”
“It’s hard to…adjust…to new things,” Mrs. Bates said in a cracked voice. “What…” She swallowed back tears. “What brought you out to Los Angeles?”
“My ex-wife’s family and a job in a law firm. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. I’d been a cop in Florida for eight years and I’d convinced myself that it was time for a change.”
“You didn’t like law?” She blushed. “I don’t mean to pry—”
“You’re not prying,” Decker said, smiling. “No, I didn’t like law. Not the kind I was practicing anyway. But I’m glad I moved. It’s worked out well for me here.”
She pricked her finger on a thorn, said “ouch,” stuck the finger in her mouth, and sucked.
“I’m distracting you,” Decker said.
“No,” she protested. “Really, I’m fine. I should have worn gloves.”
“How’s Erin?” Decker asked.
“She’s…fine. More subuded. More serious.” She faced him. “Have you…learned anything new?”
His throat became dry. The police had reported the ordeal of last night to the press as a drug bust—an officer-involved shooting during the raid on a rock house. Decker had insisted upon it. The thought of the Bateses waking up to front-page headlines that splashed out the gory death of their daughter nauseated him.
But he could break it to her now. Tell her gently. Ease the shock of the horrible news to come. She’d have to know eventually. That was originally why he’d come out to visit her. But now, seeing her like this…To tell her what he knew, what he’d seen…He couldn’t do it.
He cursed his cowardice.
“Just bits now,” he answered. “But don’t you worry, Mrs. Bates. I’m going to nail the bastard.”
“My husband would like that. Justice and all that kind of thing. I don’t think much about justice. It drives me crazy when I think of how unfair it all is, so I don’t think about it. I just want to pick up the pieces and go on. But my husband…he’s consumed with the idea of revenge.” She went back to snipping. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s trying to solve this thing himself.”
“What has he come up with?”
“Nothing. He’s fixated on the idea that Chris…Did I tell you about Chris?”
The boy’s sobs echoed in Decker’s head. “I know who he is,” he said.
“My husband seems convinced that Chris is guilty.”
“What do you think?”
“I think my husband needs someone to blame and Chris is convenient. I never liked the boy, but…”
“You don’t think Chris had anything to do with it?”
“No. And I think my husband is driving the boy crazy. He calls him all the time, writes him letters, follows him all weekend and on his lunch hours. I can’t seem to convince him that this is all wrong. He’s obsessed, Sergeant. My husband is going insane.”
Decker placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She continued her gardening. Neither spoke for a while. Then Decker stood up.
“I’ll keep in touch,” he said. “Take care, Mrs. Bates.”
She snipped off a long-stemmed Olympiad rosebud. Without looking up, she handed it to him.
Praying didn’t cut it. He slipped the pocket siddur in his jacket and took off to a house of refuge he’d used in the past.
It had once been a topless joint, but for the last five years it was a cop’s bar. He waved to a few of the off-duty uniforms sitting at a corner table laughing, then seated himself on a stool at the far end of the counter. A two-year hiatus since he’d last been here, and he’d come back to the same damn bartender polishing the same damn glasses. He acknowledged Decker with a nod.
“What’ll it be, Pete?” he asked.
“Double scotch straight up.” Decker took out a cigarette. He was smoking too much, he was going to drink too much, and he didn’t give a shit. “How’s it going, Pat?”
“Nothin’ much has changed since you been here last.”
Decker looked around. The walls had been repainted a dark red and the linoleum was new. The honey oak tables and chairs were the same, a little more worn. Same plastic light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. The pool table had been refelted—red this time. Country music wailed from a corner jukebox—Bocefus moaning about an attitude adjustment. The place was still a bar.
Decker took a sip, then a healthy swig of his scotch. He glanced up at the TV set—a soccer game from Mexico. He’d never liked soccer much, but after watching Rina’s boys play, he’d developed an appreciation for it. He leaned against the bar and listened to the TV announcer rattle off a blow-by-blow of the previous quarter. Decker understood it all, his Spanish as fluent as ever. He had first learned the language as a beat cop in Miami in order to decipher all the bullshit the Cubans gave him. Man, could they bullshit!
His glass was empty and he ordered another.
He’d joined the LAPD after his brief fling as a lawyer, and they’d sent him straight to East L.A. A goddam mistake. Latinos didn’t trust a white boy who understood their tongue. He’d always be a spy, and try as he would, he could never ingratiate himself. The hell with ’em.
He drank the booze and set down the empty glass.
Ed Fordebrand materialized. He was wearing a red-and-green plaid sports shirt, brown slacks, polished oxfords, and a tan leather jacket.
“What the hell are you doing here, Deck?”
“What the fuck does it look like?”
“You and Rina had a—”
“No.” Decker ordered a third scotch.
“The bones in the mountains turned out messy, huh, Rabbi?”
“I’m not a fucking rabbi,” Decker snapped. He took a gulp of whiskey and finally began to feel a glow. He slapped Fordebrand on the back. “Let me buy you one, Ed.”
“Won’t turn it down.”
“How’s Annette?”
“Getting old and crotchety. On my ass, day and night.” Fordebrand ordered a bourbon and Seven. “But we’re used to each other. I’m not saying divorce hasn’t crossed my mind. Or hers for that matter. Seems we just never got around to it. Linda’s almost out of the house. She’s the last of them. We’ll see what happens then.”
Pat wiped the counter and placed the bourbon in front of Fordebrand.
“Drink up,” Decker said. “I’ll buy you another.”
“One a day is my ration. I run into problems if I don’t stick to it.” Fordebrand eyed Decker. “You never were much of a boozer, were you, Pete?”
Decker shook his head and ordered another. “Usually I work instead. Now I’m here to avoid work. And nothing waiting for me at home except piles of horseshit.”
“What about Rina?”
“What about her?” Decker’s expression soured. “Why bother talking to them, you know? All they do is get all worried and start praying, and pretty soon you’re telling things they can’t handle, and then all you’ve got is a hysterical woman on your hands.”
Fordebrand paused a moment, then said, “I only met her a couple of times, but Rina never seemed to be the hysterical type.”
“They’re all hysterical, Ed. Just give ’em time. Jan wasn’t that hysterical at first either, but later…” He laughed. “A fucking Camille! Everything was such a big goddam deal.”
He drank up and ordered a Dos Equis chaser. Fordebrand watched him down the suds.
“Let me drive you home,” he said.
“I’m not drunk,” Decker protested. “Not nearly drunk enough. You gonna drink with me or you gonna be my mother?”
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